


You're welcome

by AnnieDMC



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Bromance, El Clásico, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, Pairings If You Squint, Soft spot for James, fluff?, rated for Cris and his bad words :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 16:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5340794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieDMC/pseuds/AnnieDMC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the loss in the Clásico, the only thing Cris can do is drown in his anger. However, one small gesture from that petit Argentinian will have him feeling just a tiny, little bit, better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're welcome

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there everybody! Here I am again with this story called 'You're welcome'. Kind of a sequel to my other story called thank you, so... you're welcome. (See what I did there?! Wiggles eyebrows up and down). However, you do not need to read the other story :)  
> Er... yeah, I hope you enjoy and do not hesitate to ley me know what you think :)

The final whistle echoes around the stadium and the first thing Cris hears is the loud music, yet that is not enough to cover the indignant yells and whistles from the fans. They are mad, they are sad, they are disappointed.

He avoids looking at them, because their expressions would only remind him of the gravity of the situation.

It was not any match. It was _not_ any match. He was effing aware it was the match that literally had the whole world stopping – the most important match, labeled by many. It was _El Clásico_.

And in the end… Real Madrid had lost. _He_ had lost.

Cristiano shakes his head and makes a bee-line for the changing rooms, not really in the mood to shake hands with anybody. He’s mildly aware of James’ hurt expression when he blatantly ignores him and makes a mental note to apologize to the kid later. He pushes past Sergio Ramos as the Spaniard, with the little pride he had left, shakes hands with an applauded Andrés Iniesta.

As soon as he reaches the assigned changing room he can’t help but feel that he has just run away from his problems, that he has run away from him - He vaguely remembers certain petite Argentinian, and the way his stupid and shiny hazel eyes would look for his own every once in a while.

But the _enano_ is out there, celebrating a fantastic _goleada_ with his teammates, and that thought has him riling up so much that he has to go into the shower, still with his complete uniform on, to cool down a bit.

He lets the cold water calm him. It is soothing, and for the first time in the day, he can breathe tranquilly, though unfortunately, the tranquility of the moment is lost within seconds. He tries to think positively, but finds no strength to do so. Nothing positive could come out after such performance.

They had played their worst while their rivals had made a perfect match. Why was football so unfair? Maybe the unfairness of it all was the reason the sport was so beautiful – no match was decided until the last whistle of the referee. Yet, he felt that the match had been sentenced the first time Luis fucking Suárez scored.

He had felt it, he had seen it. He had had that stupid gut feeling, telling him that they were not going to make it, that they were not going to win.

His fists ball, his shoulders tense and his jaw is almost aching at how hard he is clenching it shut, and all but one thought has him in such a state; Lionel Messi.

Again the little bastard found his way into his mind. And he can’t help it, he really can’t… _What if he had been one hundred percent fine?_

He just wonders, and although he is somewhat unconsciously admitting that the _pulga_ does represent and extreme danger, for once he does not let his ego get in the way. Lionel Messi is the best fucking player of the fucking planet at the fucking moment. Injured or not, he could decide a match, and the worst of it all was that he didn’t even need to because the match had been fucking finished way before he stepped in.

“Cristiano?” The timid, almost whispered voice of the young Colombian has him turning his head at an alarmingly fast speed.

“What?” He snaps, and watches, a little guilt-ridden, as the black haired kid lowers his gaze.

“I-I just wanted to know if you were okay…” He mumbles, and turns around, feeling stupid for wondering that. Cristiano Ronaldo was in the shower, looking like a kicked puppy, still in his uniform, and he stills questions if he was okay when he was clearly not?

A firm, wet hand in his forearm has him stopping. He tenses visibly and Cristiano has to soften his grip. “Honestly, I’ve been better kid. But thank you for worrying.”

James offers him a small, unsure smile, but that’s enough to wash away any thoughts of his greatest rival. “No problem… W-we’ll get through this.”

Cris snorts, but a little grin adorns his previously frowning features. “We will.”

An hour later, after he has changed and has completely ignored the supposedly reassuring words of his coach, he exits the changing room, bag in hand and massive headphones over his head.

His eye twitches when he realizes that the other players were also on their way out.

Not even bothering to deny that he is a little bit jealous of the relation between Marcelo, Alves and Neymar, he practically run-walks towards the exit, ready to mount the bus and never ever –until the next Clásico, of course - see those players again. 

However, his plans are awfully frustrated when he bumps against his so-called greatest rival.

“I’m fucking sorry,” He deadpans, giving the smaller man a blank expression.

“It’s okay, don’t worry.” And then he smiles. That easy-going, small, shy smile. “I…Uh… I just wanted to say… um, good match.”

Cristiano does not really know what to say. He knows it was far from good, yet forces himself to accept the words. “Thanks.”

Leo falters a little at the clipped tone, but doesn’t step away from the Luso. “I know you will do better next time, Cris. If there’s any team not to take for granted, I think it is Real Madrid.”

A little surprised at the words, the Portuguese man nods, repeating his words; “Thank you.”

“No problem. By the way…” There he goes. Cris is expecting him to make fun or make a comment to further injure his ego, but is wildly surprised when the Argentinian raises his hand, occupied with a shirt. Barcelona’s number 10 shirt.

“What,” He points accusingly at the garment, “is that thing?”

“I… uh, I know that your son… um… likes me. Sort of. I’m sure you’re his idol and stuff-”

“Fucking on with it, Leo.”

“I-I signed my shirt for him.”

“Oh…” And for the first time in that day he allows a genuine smile to appear. “Thanks, man. I’m sure he will like it.” He takes the shirt, and puts it in his bag. Cris Jr. surely would be happy.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry.” Leo shrugs. “I’m sure our next time will be better. Well, because I’ll be totally playing the whole match!”

Cris rolls his eyes, but follows the game as he gives Leo a cheeky grin. “Next time, _enano_ , you bet we’re going to give you hell, so be fucking prepared.”

“We will be.”

“Good.”

Leo nods, and waves his hand. It’s time to part ways. “See you in our next match.”

“Yeah.” Cris answers, and sighs dramatically before speaking up; “Wait!”

Leo turns, confusion washing all over his features. “Hm?”

“I… thank you, Leo.” Cris whispers, and then promptly turns around, pushing some of his teammates forward and practically running towards the Real Madrid’s bus.

Leo only chuckles.

“You’re welcome.”

 


End file.
